No Return
by prepare4trouble
Summary: Sequel to Aftertaste.  Four years after Alan turned, Edgar returns to Santa Carla to enlist Sam's help in killing the one vampire that he can't.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N – This story is a sequel to the first Lost Boys story I ever wrote, Aftertaste. I definitely recommend reading that first._

_This story follows the time line of the Tribe, and like Aftertaste, is set in the time during Reign of Frogs and that movie. Reign of Frogs makes mention of Sam checking himself into a mental institute at some point, so that's where that part comes from, by the way._

_This one's for Redeyedcat, because if she hadn't demanded it, I might never have posted this, and also for all the encouragement she gave me while I was writing the first one. It's going to be multi-chapter, I will update as often as I can, but I'm going on holiday next week (good time to start writing a new story, eh?) so will be at least two weeks until the next chapter. Sorry!_

_Enough rambling. On with the story..._

No Return

It didn't look like any mental institution that Edgar – brought up an a steady diet of horror movies and comic books – would ever have imagined. There was no high, iron gates keeping the patients inside, no foreboding hundred year old ivy covered walls, the windows were not guarded by metal bars and there were no screeches of tormented lunatics sounding from within.

Instead, he found himself standing outside a modern red brick building placed inconspicuously in the middle of a long, wide and sunny, average city road. The only thing that differentiated it from the buildings surrounding it was a rectangular plastic sign above the door, black writing on a white background, simply reading 'Fairview Psychiatric Hospital'. Below that, on the door itself another sign told him to 'Please enter and report to reception.'

He twisted the door handle, and the door swung open. Edgar dug his hands deep into his pockets and walked inside.

It looked like a dentist's office. He round himself standing in a large lobby, the walls were painted in beige, the floor was tiled wood. Directly ahead of him was a receptionist's desk, and to his left a row of uncomfortable looking chairs were lined up against the wall. The room was bright and airy. Large windows let in a lot of sunlight, more than enough to nourish the many potted plants dotted around the room. From behind the desk, an attractive girl smiled at him as he wandered hesitantly forwards.

What had been going through Sam's mind, he wondered, when he came here six months ago? When he had stuffed his bag with a few clothes, wooden stakes and holy water, gotten in a taxi one afternoon, and walked up to that same desk and asked to check in.

"Can I help you?"

Edgar looked at the receptionist and tried to fabricate a friendly smile. It didn't really work. He got the feeling she thought he was planning on moving in too. "Yeah," he told her. "I'm here to see a friend of mine. Emerson. Sam Emerson."

She nodded. "Your name?"

He gave her the few details she asked for and she jotted thim down on a piece of card, added it to a file and pointed down the hall. "He's in room 207," she told him, "Down the hall, up one level and it's just to your left. If he's not there, he'll be in the social area, that's back down here on the first floor, there are signs everywhere."

Edgar nodded dumbly and turned in the direction she had pointed. His feet in their heavy boots tapped loudly on the hard floor. There was a smell of antiseptic in the air. It made him think of hospitals. Which made sense, because that was exactly what this place was.

He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, taking them one at a time, not sure why this visit made him so apprehensive. He turned to the left and checked the number on the first door. Sam's room was directly in front of him. He raised a fist to knock, then hesitated.

It had been a long time. A lot had happened since he and Sam had said their brief goodbyes. Edgar had had been true to his word when he said he wouldn't be in Santa Carla when Sam returned. He had often wondered whether his friend had ever come looking for him. He wondered whether if he had stayed, Sam might not have come here. He wondered whether Sam would even want to see him now, especially considering the purpose of his visit.

But there was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath, savoring the sensation of his lungs stretching as they filled with air, and then held it there for a moment. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, and raised a hand to check his bandanna was on straight. Finally, he raised a fist and tapped three times on the door, paused, then another three.

There was no response for the count of four breaths, and then from inside the room, Sam's voice filtered through the closed door.

"Edgar?"

Edgar checked the door for a peephole, frowning. There was none. The handle turned and the door opened to reveal a young man who bore only a slight resemblance to the kid he used to know. He looked older, as though a lifetime of stress had etched itself onto the face of a man barely into his twenties. His usually well cared for and styled hair had grown longer and hung lank around his face.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked.

For a moment, Edgar just stared in surprise at the man in front of him. Finally, ho forced himself to speak. "How'd you know it was me?" he found himself demanding.

"That's the vampire hunter's secret knock you invented. Only you, me and Alan know it, and, well...it's daylight."

"Oh." Edgar looked away. Even after all his time, even the slightest reminder of what had happened to his brother hurt like a punch to the gut. He glanced up the corridor. This wasn't a conversation to have in the hall. "Can I come in?"

Sam nodded and stepped aside to allow him entry. Edgar strode inside and glanced around the room. It was small. There was just enough room for the narrow single bed that was pushed up against the wall, a small table with two chairs and a plywood wardrobe. The walls were painted white, everything else was brown.

Sam watched him warily as he walked across the room and sat down at the table. He pushed the door closed and turned to lean against it. "Why are you here, Edgar?" he asked.

"Funny," Edgar replied, "I was going to ask you the same question."

Sam shrugged, but his nonchalance seemed forced somehow, as though it had been rehearsed, "I guess I just needed a break."

"So take a vacation. Go see the world. Do anything other than this."

"I tried that, after Alan... I asked you to come with us, remember? It didn't work." Sam folded his arms, wrapping them around his body. He moved away from the door and perched on the side of the bed, the whole time never shifting his gaze from his visitor. There was a haunted look in his eyes. "All this vampire stuff. Micheal, my Grandpa, Alan... It just got too much."

Edgar shook his head. "Jesus, Sam, if you wanted out you could've just quit. I mean quit hunting, quit the town if you wanted, but not quit your life."

"Why are you here?" Sam asked again. "I thought you were gone. Moving on down the coast chasing the vampires."

"I did. I'm visiting." Edgar realized he was tapping his fingernails on the surface of the table. He made himself stop. "Got some business to take care of. I went to your house and your mom told me where you were..." he tailed off and glanced out the window. He wondered whether the people driving past out there realized what this place was. "Jesus, Sam. You moved yourself into a nuthouse."

Sam simply sat and watched him, arms still wrapped around his body like he was protecting himself from something.

"Just answer me one thing." Edgar said. "You didn't tell them, did you? About the vampires?"

Sam smiled. With the change of expression, the tension seemed to lift. It almost made him look like his old self again. "No. This is a minimum security place. I checked myself in because I needed some help. If I start babbling about vampires, telling them all the things we've done, they'd lock me away for good. Think I was going to try to stake someone or something."

"So what do they make of that?" Edgar pointed at the wall above the bed. Sam had hung a wooden stake right above his head. Large, sharp, impossible to miss. And presumably very difficult to explain.

"Oh," he smiled again. "I put the extra piece of wood across the middle, see how it looks like a cross? I don't know if it works like that, but I'm hoping it'll deter vampires. And if not, the bottom part is a pretty sharp stake. No one's ever mentioned it, I guess they all just think I'm religious. I don't think that noticed what else it is."

Edgar laughed, "That's a pretty good idea. For a mental patient. I might have to borrow it myself some time."

Sam's smile faded instantly, his folded arms tightened further. "I'm not crazy, Edgar. Don't talk about me like I am."

Edgar nodded. He glanced to the window again, watching cars the drive past outside. Watching the world go by. There wasn't a whole lot else you could do in a place like this. He turned back to his former teammate. "Seriously, Sam, why are you here?"

Sam unwrapped his arms from around his body and sat looking uncomfortable. The fingers of one hand tapped out a rhythm on his thigh and his gaze finally dropped, watching his drumming. "I guess I just needed to feel safe," he said finally.

"Yeah, well newsflash Sammy, you're not safe. No one is. So if you go convincing yourself you are, you're going to be off guard and putting yourself in more danger."

Sam glanced up at the cross on the wall and then out of the window, "He doesn't know where to find me here," he said quietly.

"Who?"

"You know who."

Edgar nodded. "Funny you should mention him, that's actually why I'm here."

"Oh?"

Edgar sighed. Sam just didn't seem like _Sam_ any more. When Edgar looked at him, he could barely detect any hint of that kid with the clothes that were weird even by Santa Carla standards, that had walked into his store all that time ago and started trying to rearrange the merchandise. Somewhere along the way, he had lost a part of himself. He appeared subdued; colorless; like he was too tired to bother. Edgar couldn't help but feel at least partly responsible for that.

"I thought he'd follow the others," he said. "They've got a pack growing over in Luna Bay, I've been hunting them down, as best as I can. I kept expecting him to turn up, but he never did. Then I heard the disappearances had started again up here. So, he's still visiting you, is he?"

Sam shook his head, "Not since I came here. But before that, every night. He wanted to go to you, but he couldn't face you. That's how I know he's still Alan. Only, he's not. Not completely. Alan wouldn't want to turn me into a vampire."

Edgar closed his eyes, "I warned you about this, but you were too busy trying to convince me he was still my brother to listen."

"But he is. That's why it's so difficult. He's still your brother, he's still my friend. He's still Alan, but he's something else as well." Sam sighed shakily and ran his fingers through his unwashed hair. "Can you help me?"

Edgar wanted to say yes, but the word wouldn't come. Instead he shook his head. "No, Sam. I can't."

Sam flinched, as though Edgar had slapped him in the face. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and teased the flesh with his teeth, staring at Edgar in ill-concealed shock. Clearly, that wasn't the response he had been expecting. After all, Edgar was a vampire hunter to the core, a soldier in the battle against the things that lurked in the dark. When someone asked for help, he provided it. For a fee, of course.

"Fine," said Sam, "I guess I really screwed up big time for you to refuse like that. So if you're not going to help, you might as well leave."

Edgar glanced once more around the depressing room that had become Sam's life. He shook his head again. "You've got to understand," he said. His eyes drifted downward as he spoke. "You're right. He is still my brother. He's not, but he is. I had the chance to stake him the night he turned and I couldn't do it. I won't be able to do it now either. It needs to be done, but I just can't do it."

"Fine." Sam nodded. "Goodbye, Edgar."

"That's why I came back to Santa Carla. To ask for _your_ help."

Sam shook his head. "I don't do that any more."

"I know." Edgar got to his feet and walked slowly to the door. "For the sake of your sanity, right?"

Sam nodded again.

"And what about for the sake of your humanity? He's going to find you eventually. You can sit in this room for years wasting your life if you want, but he's immortal. He has an eternity to find you. Eventually it's going to come down to a choice. Do you want to be a vampire slayer, or a vampire?"

Sam didn't answer, he didn't even look at him. His eyes stared blankly into nothing. Lost, presumably in either the past or one of his potential futures. It hurt to see him like this. Edgar waited for as long as he could bear, but finally he couldn't take it any more. He got to his feet, fished in his pocket for a business card and placed it on the little table, "My number. When you make a decision, whichever way you choose, let me know."

Still no response. Edgar opened the door and let himself out.

* * *

Sam paced the floor in his small bedroom, up and down from the window to the door and back, unable to bring himself to stop and sit still. He had thought he was getting better. He had begun to convince himself that everything was going to be okay in the end. Alan hadn't visited him since he came here. The doctors told him again and again how much progress he was making, how soon he would be ready to face the world again, and he had believed them. But those few words from Edgar had undone everything he had worked so hard to achieve. They had shattered the illusions he had so carefully constructed to block out the memories of the real world. And now they were gone, he could see clearly again.

He really would never be safe. The monsters were out there, and one of them had his eye on him. If Alan wanted to turn him, there really was nothing he could do about it. If he ever wanted to feel secure outside the walls of the institution, Alan had to not be there. Even inside, he could find him. He would find him eventually. He may already know where he was and just be biding his time.

If Edgar was unable to do it, and he had no one else that he could tell, he was going to have to do it himself. He had given up hunting because he thought it would keep him sane, but for the sake of both his sanity and his life, he was going to have to re-enter that world, for a short while at least.

He was terrified. But it was hard to tell how much of the fear came from the idea of facing his demons, and how much from the burgeoning case of agoraphobia that the doctors were starting to become worried about.

He paused in his pacing as he passed the table. The business card lay right in the middle, print facing upward, offering the services of the Frog brothers as surfboard shapers. Sam stared at it, certain that he could feel his heart attempting to break out of the confines of his ribcage. So, Edgar had moved out of the comic business. And Frog brothers. Plural. Unless there was a third Frog he'd never met, Edgar was having as hard a time dealing as he was, only he showed it in a different way.

But he knew that already. Even as they were battling to save Alan, it had seemed that Edgar was having a harder time of it than his brother. In so many ways the Frogs were – had been – so similar, it was sometimes easy to overlook the differences between them. Alan was the thinker, while Edgar was a man of action. While Alan would attempt to reason his way out of a problem, Edgar preferred to attack it head on and beat it into submission.

Having your brother join the other side wasn't the kind of problem you could beat into submission, especially not if you couldn't bring yourself to use a stake. The trouble was, Sam didn't know whether he could do it either.

He reached out gingerly, as though the card would attack him if he made any sudden movements, and slid it across the table toward himself. He picked it up and read the writing again, trying to think.

The choice was clear, he liked being human, and he wanted to have a life. A real one, not one spent hiding away from the world. He wanted to go to college, get a job, have friends, maybe even get married and have kids some day. None of that would happen if Alan caught up to him, and none of it would happen if he stayed in hiding forever. There was really only one decision he could make, and Edgar had probably known that even before he stepped through his door.

Hell, when he found out where he was, he had probably been thrilled. What better carrot to dangle in front of the man in the institution? Do this for me, and get your life back.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. It was beginning to feel greasy. There hadn't seemed much point styling it in here, so he had just let it grow, washed it when he could be bothered. His chin was rough with a day's beard growth and he was wearing sweatpants. His fifteen year old self would have been horrified to see the man he had become.

He strummed the card across the fingers of his left hand, and then spun around decisively and padded to the door in his socks. There was a communal payphone for the patients in the social area. He made his way there, dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed the number on the card.

The telephone rang five times before it connected to the answer machine. Edgar's recorded voice spoke to him. "Frog brothers. Leave a message telling me which of our services you need and a number, I'll get back to you."

Not home yet. Sam wasn't sure how long had passed since Edgar had left, he didn't even know what time it was now. He almost hung up, but his decision was made, there was no point postponing.

He took a deep breath and forced out the words. "It's Sam. Okay, Edgar, I'm in."


	2. Chapter 2

It was the middle of the day. The sun was high in the sky and shining down brightly on the Santa Carla boardwalk, so directly overhead that the shadows had shrunk until they were barely there. There was no danger of attack from the undead, and no possibility that they were even being observed, yet Sam still didn't feel safe.

For a long time, he had been living with a constant feeling of unease, as though something terrible was going to happen at any moment. Every time he walked around a corner, there could be something waiting for him, every night when he went to bed, he wondered whether he would be visited in the night. Sometimes, he wished that it would just happen and be done with, because the constant uncertainty, the never knowing when he was safe, really was driving him insane.

But Sam wasn't crazy, not really. He just happened to live in a mental institution...

Yeah, he could see where the confusion might arise.

But inside the institution, he had at least felt safe during the day. He stayed in his room, his only visitors were people he knew and the doctors and nurses that he had come to know in the time he had been there. He knew they were safe. Out here on the boardwalk, he couldn't be sure. True, Alan couldn't be there now, there was no danger of the tap of long fingernails on his shoulder, and no possibility that he would turn around to see the face of his former friend and comrade showing his fangs as he smiled, but what if he had human helpers?

He had never been quite clear on the possibility of that. Vampires could influence a human mind, make them see things that weren't there, think things that weren't true. He knew this not only from the comic books supplied to him by the Frog brothers, but from things that Alan himself had told him before Sam had fled. So might a vampire have a human helper? A brainwashed daytime spy who could be among the crowd, watching him, ready to report back as soon as the sun went down? Or a half vampire, disguised as one of the shades wearing, drugged up kids slouched on a nearby bench?

Or if not, what if this took longer than he planned and the sun set before he could get inside? If Alan was still in Santa Carla, and presumably he was, the boardwalk would be the perfect place to hunt. He would see Sam, and see Edgar, and then he would know instantly what they were planning.

He knew how irrational he was being, but he had somehow gotten himself into that way of thinking and if was a difficult habit to break. Sometimes, he wondered if he was wrong when he claimed to be sane. And sometimes he hoped that he was wrong, because if he was crazy and if the danger was all in his head, then he could get better.

He couldn't even remember any more what it was like to feel safe.

The warm sun felt wonderful as it soaked into the bare skin of his arms and face. Edgar was standing next to him. Once, that alone would have been enough to provide a sense of security. Now, it only eased the terror slightly. They were standing on the boardwalk with their backs to the crowd, leaning over a black painted metal railing, looking out over the beach to the ocean. The water shimmered as the waves out at sea were hit by the sunlight, and a slight breeze gently caressed his skin, cooling the air around him.

Despite everything, it felt good to be outside, he hadn't realized how much he had missed the sun. The fear of being turned had forced him to live almost like a vampire anyway.

Edgar, standing to his right, was still and silent as he gazed over the beach where he had grown up. Just a little way down the boardwalk was the store that used to be the comic shop, now closed and empty. It had begun to fail the instant Edgar had left, his parents had been incapable of running it alone. Sam wondered where they were now, but he didn't know whether he should ask. Edgar had lost so much in the years since they had been friends, he didn't want to learn that he had lost them too.

Finally, Edgar turned to look at him. He was frowning.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Nothing." Edgar shook his head and turned back to look at the ocean for a moment. He turned back. "It's just, you look like you think something's going to pounce on you any minute. It's daytime. Relax."

Sam shrugged. He hadn't realized that his anxiety was that obvious. He made a conscious effort to relax tensed muscles and loosen his tight grip on the metal railing. Finally, he tried to rearrange his expression into one more befitting a summer's day at the beach.

Edgar didn't look convinced. "Sam, if you're this scared in the daylight, what're you gonna be like at night?"

Sam felt his muscles contract again at the thought. Instantly, he tried to force himself to relax, smoothing his face into a mask of false calm as his heart beat hard and fast, feeling as though it were pounding against the inside of his ribcage. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"Sure you are." Edgar's tone lacked the dripping sarcasm that Sam's would have had if their positions were reversed, but Sam could still hear it, hidden below the surface. "I think living in that place messed you up even worse than Alan managed to."

Possibly true. Sam remained quiet on the issue. At least Alan hadn't visited him since he had been there.

"Did you tell them you're checking out yet?"

Sam nodded. "They're against it. I moved in voluntarily, so they can't make me stay, but they think it's a bad idea." He glanced around and felt another wave of anxiety grip his insides. "I'm thinking they might be right."

"You need to be at home so Alan knows where to find you," Edgar insisted. "You said yourself, he doesn't know where you are right now. He won't come to me. Unless we happen to see him walking around town, we've got no other way of connecting with him."

Sam chewed on his bottom lip. All around him were people laughing and smiling in the sun. He wished he could be one of them again.

"And when he comes to see me, what then? Do you want me to just stake him?"

"Do you think he'd let you?"

"No, of course not."

"Stupid question then, wasn't it?"

Sam glared, "Hey, you asked for my help, remember?"

Edgar nodded, "Likewise," he said. "You wanted my help to get your life back. I might need you to actually do the deed, but the way I see it, you've got a hell of a lot more at stake here than me."

At stake. Sam rolled his eyes and wondered whether the pun was intentional.

He turned away from Edgar and looked back over the beach. The kids down on the sand had no idea about what was out there. They didn't know about the monsters lurking in the darkness looking to feast on their blood or rip them limb from limb. He would never be that innocent again, but with Alan gone he would no longer be on the monsters' radar. He would have the same chance as everyone else. "I guess we need each other," he said.

Edgar dragged his eyes away from the ocean and fixed them on Sam. He suddenly looked much older than he was. "You want some help moving out of the nuthouse?"

* * *

Edgar's truck was parked illegally right outside the institution while he waited for Sam to complete the final stages of checking out. Part of him wanted to go inside and stand with him, to make sure that he would go through with it. It wasn't just that he needed Sam's help; they had been friends, and seeing him reduced to this actually hurt. Almost as much as what happened to Alan hurt.

Instead, he drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel in time to the rock tune playing from the radio speakers, and decided that he would give Sam five minutes before he went looking for him. There was no need, the instant that decision was made, the door opened and his friend stepped through.

He had a sports duffel slung over one shoulder, and a small backpack clutched in his hand, and that was it. Sam traveled light, apparently. That came as a surprise. Somehow he had been expecting a couple of suitcases at least. It was hard to believe that this was the same person that had brought a bag bulging with clothes and grooming products just for a one night sleepover with the Frogs when they were kids. The same guy that had brought a razor and some shaving gel before he needed to shave, just in case.

Edgar had seen Sam's room at his grandpa's house, and it was filled with stuff. The wardrobe had been so stuffed with clothes that it practically bulged at the sides under the strain of keeping it all inside. His shelves had been stacked high with books and comics. Magazines, no doubt containing pictures of people wearing even more bizarre styles that Sam enjoyed, were scattered around the place, and posters of movie stars Edgar didn't care about adorned the walls. Just the things he used on his hair would probably fill a shelf in the bathroom.

Edgar leaded across and opened the passenger side door from the inside. It swung open onto the street, and he waited for Sam to come close enough to hear him. "When your mom said you just packed a bag and left, she wasn't kidding," he said.

"Yeah," Sam held the backpack up in front of him, it was the kind kids used to carry their books to and from school. In fact, that had probably been its purpose once upon a time. "This bag, actually. I just threw in a change of clothes and a stake. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision. Mom's been by a few times since and brought me a couple more things, but it still doesn't look like I really moved in at all, does it?"

Sam was still standing on the sidewalk not getting in the truck. Edgar opened his own door, walked around and took the duffel bag from him. He slung it in the back of his rusting old truck, next to the crucifix stake that he had put there earlier.

"No, it doesn't. Shows you weren't meant to be here. So climb in and let's get you home."

Sam did as he was told. As he reached out to pull the door closed after him, he smiled, for only the second time. Once again, it made him look like himself again, and Edgar wondered whether he would ever be able to get that Sam back full time.

"Where's you get this piece of junk from?" Sam asked. The smile expanded into a mocking grin.

"Hey, it works. It's great for moving whatever I need, and it was cheap." He leaned forward and peered at Sam inquiringly, "What are you driving these days?"

"Good point."

Sam pulled the door closed with a bang, almost catching Edgar's hand as he did, effectively cutting off the conversation. The smile was gone. He walked back around the truck, got in and shifted it into drive. In the other seat, Sam wound down the window and closed his eyes against the breeze of air on his face, and for a while they drove in silence with only the sound of the radio and the air through the open window.

"So, surfboards," Sam said suddenly.

Edgar turned his head to look at him.

"I've got to ask, bud. What's _that_ about? You used to hate surfers."

Edgar shrugged, "The ones that stole from me, yeah. But a guy's got to make a living, and it turns out I'm pretty good at it."

Sam nodded and didn't say anything else. Edgar left him to watch to world go by at high speed. Turning into the familiar road up to the house, even Edgar felt like he was coming home. Sam looked nervous.

Before he even drove all the way up to the house, the door opened and Sam's mom stepped out onto the porch to wait for them. He parked up not too far from the house, and before he had even switched off the engine, she was running over. Sam climbed out of the truck to be greeted by a hug attack, which he returned enthusiastically, and Edgar watched with a smile. He stayed inside the truck until the hugging was over, not wanting to be drawn into it.

Mrs Emerson ended the hug with a tight squeeze and an exclamation of. "Oh, Sam, I'm so glad to have you home!"

"Me too," Sam told her. Edgar could detect the uncertainty and hint of untruth in his tone.

If Lucy noticed the lie she gave no indication. Edgar assessed the situation and decided that it was probably safe to exit the vehicle. As he opened the door and got out, she turned her attentions on him.

"Edgar, thank you so much for bringing my boy back home."

"Sure, no problem," Edgar told her quickly. He spotted rising arms for a second hug, and quickly busied himself picking up Sam's bag from the back of the truck before she could grab him too. It wasn't just that he didn't like hugging – he didn't, particularly, but his friendship with Sam had taught him to appreciate the good things about it – but he was bringing Sam home for a specific purpose, and he wasn't sure he deserved her thanks.

Instead, Lucy placed her arm around Sam's back and guided him inside as though she thought he might turn and run back to the truck if she didn't. The kitchen looked just the same as Edgar remembered, redecorated, like the rest of the house after the vampire attack, and home of many happy memories. He inhaled deeply, the smell of baking lingered in the air.

"Who's for cookies?" Luck asked. "I baked them this morning when I heard you were coming home. And I've got Coke, orange juice, milk, ice tea, anything you want."

"No thanks, Mrs Emerson," Edgar told her.

"Call me Lucy. And you, Sam? What can I get you?"

Edgar shot him a warning glance. They needed to get somewhere more private to discuss their plan before the sun went down.

"Actually, mom, I thought I'd go get unpacked first, if that's okay with you." Sam said.

"Oh, well sure. If that's what you want. You boys just yell if you need anything."

Edgar followed Sam up the stairs and into his bedroom. As they walked through the door, he blinked, and looked around in amazement. It looked exactly the same. The posters on the wall had changed, and one of his grandfather's hideous stuffed animals had been taken out of the wardrobe and placed on the shelf, but other than that, he could have stepped through a time portal back to 1987.

"What?" Sam asked.

Edgar shook his head.

"Okay then," Sam frowned at him and sat down on the end of his bed. The covers were printed with action scenes taken straight from the pages of his favorite comic books. "Can we get on with this?" There was more than a hint of impatience in his tone.

Edgar sat down at Sam's desk. There was a six month old issue of Batman laying on the surface, open somewhere in the middle, as though it had been started and never finished when Sam had decided to leave. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to get out of here well before sunset. Ala..._He _probably won't realize you're back right away, so you probably won't see him tonight, but if he does come and he finds me here, he'll know it's a trap."

Sam nodded. His fingers played nervously with the bed covers. "What do I do if he does come?"

"If he does, just don't freak out, okay? He doesn't want to kill you, so just, you know, talk to him."

"Talk to him?" Sam frowned, "About what?"

"Anything you want. You're trying to earn his trust. Oh, and keep this out of sight," he picked up the crucifix stake and shoved it in the wardrobe. It displaced one of Sam's grandfather's taxidermy projects, which fell from its shelf and into the floor. "You don't want him thinking you're a threat," he added.

"Talk to him. It's not much of a plan." Sam got to his feet, picked up the stuffed animal and placed it back on the shelf carefully.

"Got a better one?"

Sam took a series of deep breaths. "Edgar, I'm starting to think about going back to the institution."

Edgar got to his feet and punched him in the shoulder; not hard enough to injure him, but hopefully enough to make him think. "Stop freaking out. You've got to make him trust you or you'll never get a chance to get close to him with a stake. Once he thinks you're on his side, he'll let his guard down, maybe even tell you where he sleeps."

Sam glanced out of the window, checking the height of the sun in the sky. "Look," he said, "I know he's your brother and you don't think you could kill him, but I've got to tell you, I'm not a hundred percent sure I can either. And you're the one with the master plan. Couldn't you just..."

Edgar stared at him in a way that silenced him.

"No, I guess not."

"All you have to do for now is talk to him. Maybe imply that maybe you'd like to join him, if that's what he wants. Just don't drink anything he offers you, and for the love of daylight don't let him bite you."

Sam nodded and stared at the floor uncomfortably. "I really don't like this."

"Yeah, me neither," Edgar told him, "but he's out there killing people. I don't suppose you've noticed how the missing posters are coming back, but there's more and more of them again. It's our mess, we need to clean it up."

He knew he wasn't being fair to Sam, but he had no choice. Still, here was his best friend – or former best friend at least – an hour out of the mental institution, and being asked to face the very thing that put him there because supposedly seasoned monster hunter Edgar Frog didn't have the guts.

"Look, I know what you're thinking," Edgar said. "But I need you help. He's my brother. Remember how you couldn't kill Michael?"

Sam massaged his forehead with his fingertips and nodded. "I just don't know if I can kill Alan either," he admitted.

"We'll work something out," Edgar promised him. "No one's killing anyone yet. Just stick to the plan, win his trust and we'll take it from there."

Sam looked unconvinced as he drew in a shaky breath and nodded. "Alright."

"Good," Edgar clapped his palm onto Sam's arm supportively, "I'm going to go, okay? I'll be back tomorrow."

Sam nodded without comment and Edgar left the room. He couldn't help feeling guilty for what this was clearly doing to his friend, but he had passed up the chance to kill Alan before, and he would be just as unable to do it now. Leaving him alive had stuck both himself and Sam in some kind of limbo from which they were unable to move on. They both had as much to lose and to gain from this as each other. The difference was that Edgar believed Sam could free them, while he was certain that he himself could not.

"Edgar?"

He stopped, hand on the door handle and turned to look at Sam's mom as she walked out of the kitchen.

"Thank you for bringing him home, I really do appreciate it," she told him.

Edgar nodded curtly. The smell of freshly baked cookies still hung in the air, and the dough stained her apron.

"But," suddenly, her voice hardened, "I need to know you're not going to bring him into all that vampire stuff again. I don't know exactly what happened because he won't tell me, but I know it was bad, and I know it involved you and your brother. He's finally getting better." She stared Edgar directly in the eye, unblinking and firm. "I won't let you drag him back down. Do you understand me, Edgar Frog? I won't let you hurt my boy."

"Yeah, I understand," he told her. "Believe me, _I'm_ not going to do anything to him."

Lucy frowned, untrusting, "Well, good. And you make sure no one else does either."

Edgar turned away and opened the door, "Sam's going to be fine," he said, without turning to look at her. "I guarantee it."

He slammed the door behind him and got in his truck quickly. He drove away without even glancing in the rear view mirror. The sweet, sugary nostalgia smell of baking lingered as though it had woven itself into the fabric of his clothes, and he wished he could step back in time.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N - It's been a while since I worked on this one. I'm really sorry about that. I hope people are still interested. Let me know, if you are. I do plan on working more on the Enemy too, sorry about abandoning that one for a while too. I'm back now, so watch this space._

_I still don't own the Lost Boys  
_

* * *

The sun was beginning to sink down into the horizon. Sam watched it warily out of the corner of his eye as he tried to listen to his mother's chatter. She looked and sounded cheerful on the surface, but to Sam it appeared forced. He could hear the anxiety beneath as she struggled to keep things light, desperate not to say or do anything that might upset him.

As she spoke, she got to her feet and switched on the lamp at the other side of the room. Sam blinked at the sudden bright light and realized as he did just how dark it had gotten. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was tired. It was still early yet, but it had been a long day, and the night promised no rest for him. He glanced outside again. It was now more dark than it was light. The long shadows that had punctuated the orange glow of the dying beams of sunlight had disappeared into the dusk of evening. Soon, the dead things would begin to wake, if they hadn't already. Somewhere out there, Alan was opening his eyes.

"Sam?"

Sam's body twitched involuntarily as the sound of his name, formed into a worried question, sliced unexpectedly through his thoughts. He tore his attention away from the window and to his mother. She was leaning forward in her chair, a glass of ice tea in her hand, resting on her knee, face creased in concern.

"You look tired, Sam," she said. "Maybe you should get an early night tonight."

Sam glanced at the stairs with unease, the last thing he wanted to do was be alone, but to refuse would arouse her suspicions. He knew his exhaustion was obvious. His mouth suddenly felt incredibly dry. He licked his lips and struggled to swallow, then nodded.

His mom smiled as he got to his feet. "Tomorrow, if you want, we can go into town, get your hair cut, maybe buy some new clothes."

Sam tried to smile back at her. Once, he would have been excited by the prospect of a shopping trip. Now, though, he had more important things to worry about. Like getting through the night alive, for example.

At his strangled, unconvincing enthusiasm, Lucy's smile faltered slightly but she kept up the cheep in her voice. "Or maybe you could take Edgar with you," she suggested. "If you're embarrassed to be seen with me."

"No, Mom, that's not it," Sam told her instantly. He tried again to grin at her, doing slightly better this time. "I'd love you to come with me. Edgar? Clothes shopping, seriously? Have you seen the guy?"

With that, he turned toward the stairs, his smile fading as soon as she could no longer see his face.

"Goodnight," she told him.

Sam didn't answer. There was nothing good about the night.

* * *

Sam had closed the curtains covering the windows of his bedroom tightly earlier in the day, when the sun was still high in the sky. He was glad of that now, it spared him from having to walk across the room in full view of anyone – or anything – that might be watching from outside in order to close them. His hand traced the wall, fingertips searching for the light switch. He pressed it and blinked in the artificial light. Without stepping completely inside, his eyes searched the room, passing over every nook and cranny, every potential hiding place, making sure he was alone.

From the doorway, he could see most of the room. The closet door was open, unthinkable while he sleeps, but for now he was thankful of it. There was only one place he couldn't see completely. Feeling slightly ridiculous, despite the very real danger, he stepped gingerly into the room, crouched down until he was on all fours, and lifted the dangling edge of his duvet with its Batman cover, and checked underneath the bed. There was nothing there but a few comics and a forgotten odd sock. He relaxed very slightly.

Feeling fractionally safer, Sam sat down heavily on the bed and rested his head in his hands. He was tired, but sleep wasn't an option. Not before the sun came up. If Alan came, he needed to be awake, ready to defend himself. He opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and retrieved a medium sized stake. It had been a present from Edgar and Alan for his sixteenth birthday. He gripped it in both hands, feeling the reassuring weight of the carefully carved and smoothly sanded wood, and then reluctantly slipped it underneath the covers of his bed, where he could reach it easily, but where it wouldn't be visible.

That done, he switched on the bedside light in addition to the main light in the room, then reached for the top of his pile of unread comics and opened the first one at the front page. He stretched out on the bed and tried to lose himself in the slightly out of date adventures of Batman. When he got the chance, he decided, he needed to get to the comic store and buy the latest issues. He had a lot of catching up to do. That was, if there even was a comic book store in Santa Carla any more. Since Frog's comics closed its doors, he wasn't sure any more.

* * *

Sam rolled over onto his back and frowned at the unexpected sound of crinkling paper by his ear. He pried his eyes open and blinked in the glare of his two lights. He stretched and yawned as the last remnants of some dream or another disappeared back into his subconscious, and he jerked in horror. He had been asleep.

He yanked back the long sleeve of his sweater and checked the time on his watch. It was a little after 2am. At some point partway through his second comic book, Sam had succumbed to exhaustion and done what he had sworn to himself he wouldn't. And there was something else. Something wrong.

He thought back over the few moments since consciousness had returned, wondering what had woken him. It hadn't been the sound of the comic book beneath his head. That had brought him into full wakefulness, but something else had disturbed him first.

The room was completely silent save for the faint hum of electricity and the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat suddenly amplified to ridiculous volume. The world was asleep. But there had been something. His hand reaching underneath the still undisturbed covers of his bed, Sam took a slow deep breath, and held it. Waiting.

_Tap, tap tap._

Sam's eyes widened in terror. 'It's the branch of a tree,' he told himself, 'the wind is blowing it against the window.' But it was an almost completely still night, and there were no trees close enough to the window to reach it, even allowing for growth while he had been away. His grip on the stake tightened.

_Tap, tap tap._

Through the thin material of the curtains, silhouetted against the glow of the moonlight, Sam was sure that he could make out a shape. A terrifyingly human-looking shape.

_Tap, tap tap._

It was too regular a sound to be made by anything other than a person, or a vampire.

_Tap, tap tap._

Fingernails on glass. Then there was a pause, just long enough to miss the expected next repetition. Sam released his breath as quietly as he could manage. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe...

"I know you're in there, Sam."

Sam jumped violently, pulling the stake out into the open and pointing it in the direction of the still covered window. He broke out into a cold sweat and his hands began to tremble, moving the stake up and down, from side to side.

_Tap, tap tap_.

"Let me in, Sam."

Sam dragged a trembling hand over his damp face, shaking his head. He tried to speak but fear had constricted his throat to the point where sound was almost impossible. "No!" he managed eventually, then cringed in terror, eyes closed, stake still brandished in front of him.

"It's okay," came Alan's voice, calm and rational, and so much like it had sounded in life that if Sam wanted, he could almost fool himself into believing that this really was the friend that he had lost. "Sam, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk."

Talk. Yeah, that was the plan. But now the time had come, he really wasn't ready. Sam continued to shake his head, breathing too quickly, beginning to feel lightheaded from the excess of oxygen.

_Tap, tap tap._

He couldn't do it. He couldn't get up, go to the window and let the monster into his room, back into his life. He had thought, for a few stupid moments, drunk on the idea of getting his life back, confidence bolstered by Edgar's comforting presence that he could do it, but he had been wrong. Tension locked every muscle. Even if he wanted to get up and open the window, he wouldn't be able to.

"Okay," came Alan's voice. "Sam, it's okay. I'm going. I'll try again tomorrow." Another pause, and then, "I'm really not going to hurt you, Sam. I just want to be your friend."

The vague silhouette of the vampire disappeared quickly and silently as Alan flew away. Sam stayed where he was, perched on the edge of the bad, holding the weapon, shaking in fear.

He stayed there until the first rays of new morning sunlight began to penetrate the room, and then finally he relaxed enough to lay down, and slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

"This is great!" Edgar said excitedly, the following day. "I thought we might have to wait days before he realized you were back."

They were sitting on the porch steps in the early afternoon sunlight. Sam's arms bare arms embraced his denim clad knees tightly while Edgar stretched out his legs and leaned backwards until he was almost laying on the steps, basking in the warmth of the sun like a cat.

"Yeah, great," said Sam. His voice would have dripped sarcasm if he had the energy. As it was, the terror of the previous night had left him drained. "He must have been watching the house the whole time I've been away. The house where my Mom lives, by the way. And the instant I come back, he pounces."

Edgar shook his head, "He didn't pounce though, did he? He just talked at you through the window."

"Well, no," Sam agreed. "I guess not. But only because I didn't let him in."

"Come on, Sam, don't tell me you're forgetting the basics," Edgar told him. "We learned this stuff back in the beginning. Vampire 101. Yes, inviting a vampire inside takes away a lot of your power, renders some weapons useless, gives them back their reflections – makes them more human, in a way – but whether they're invited or not, they can still come in if they want to. Remember the ones that attacked your house? You didn't invite _them_ in, did you? They still managed to do plenty of damage."

Sam shrugged unhappily.

"If he'd wanted to get in, he would have done. It sounds to me like he just wants to talk. This is what we wanted. The plan is working exactly as we hoped."

Sam, in fact, had been hoping that Alan would never appear, as he was sure Edgar knew, but he said nothing.

"When he comes tomorrow, let him in. Or don't, if it makes you feel safer, but talk to him. Start to win his trust. Or else he's going to lose patience, and you really don't want that."

Unlike Edgar who seemed to live his life on a short fuse, the human Alan had been slow to anger, but when something finally got to him and he snapped, you did not want to be on the wrong side of him. Sam nodded his reluctant agreement.

Inside the house, he could hear his mother humming to herself as she baked. Edgar took a deep sniff of the air. "Hey," he said. "Your mom mentioned cookies yesterday. Do you know if there's any left?"


	4. Chapter 4

Edgar Frog made Lucy nervous.

He and his brother always had, right from the beginning. The first time she had seen them, the night of her disastrous date with Max, she had felt a chill of premonition run up her spine. Something about them was wrong.

She had brushed the feeling aside in the wake of the nightmare that followed, realizing that there were far more things to be worried about in Santa Carla than a pair of adolescent boys with shifty eyes that would never quite meet hers. And after all, they had helped. She owed them her life, and her sons' lives. They had been good friends to Sam.

It wasn't until she had realized a year or so later, that rather than being good friends they were his only friends, that the unease had returned.

Then, in the summer of 1990, something had changed. She didn't know what it was, she had never been able to coax an explanation out of her son, but something terrible had happened, and suddenly, the Frog brothers were gone from his life.

She had been relieved, for a time. But relief had quickly turned to concern as she had watched her previously outgoing son retreat further and further into himself. And then, one day, he had simply left. Packed a bag and disappeared without even leaving a note. She had assumed he had gone to find Edgar. It had been two days before he had finally called to let her know where he was.

He had never given an explanation, but she had know deep down in her gut, in the mother's instinct that was never wrong, that the Frog brothers were involved. And now here was Edgar, sitting on her front porch, basking in the sunlight alongside Sam as though nothing had ever happened.

She was grateful to Edgar for bringing Sam home, but she knew that he had also been instrumental in him checking into the hospital in the first place.

So yes, Edgar Frog made Lucy extremely nervous.

She pottered around the kitchen, making herself busy. She flitted from side to side, cloth in hand, swabbing down worktops, wiping over the oven, checking the egg-shaped timer keeping track of her baking. Sam had bought her that. Mother's day 1985. The last one before they had moved to Santa Carla. It was old now, and stained with years of cooking splatters and sticky fingers, but it still took pride of place on the window ledge next to a bunch of her favorite flowers picked from the garden the day before

As she worked, she kept half an ear trained on the open window, trying to hear snippets of the conversation taking place outside. The two boys – men now – spoke in the same hushed tones that they had as teenagers, glancing around them as though they had some secret that the rest of the world wasn't allowed to know.

She sighed in frustration and listened harder.

* * *

Edgar just about managed to stop himself from moaning in pleasure as he took a bite of the oatmeal and raisin cookie that Sam had liberated from the kitchen. It was sweet and flavored with cinnamon and vanilla, soft and chewy in the center, hard and crispy around the edge. It was the most wonderful thing he had tasted in years.

Treats like that were rare for him. Vampire hunting didn't even come close to paying the bills, and although he managed to scrape by on the money he earned making surf boards, necessity dictated that when he bought food, it was of the cheap and long-lasting variety. The cupboards of his small kitchen were sparsely populated with generic cereal, rice, canned goods and salt. Lots of salt, but of course that was good for more things than cooking. He did treat himself sometimes, of course, but nothing he could buy from Luna Bay's supermarkets or bakeries could even come close to the taste of Lucy Emerson's oatmeal cookies.

It wasn't that she was an exceptional cook – she may well be, he had very little to compare her to – it was the memories the flavor evoked. Edgar's childhood had been far from enjoyable, and when he looked back on it, it was usually with resentment or melancholy. But there was a short period of time, after Sam had come into his life, while Alan was still alive, when the memories were bathed in sunlight, filled with the optimism and confidence of youth. Just one bite had taken him back to that time. He was fifteen again, sitting on the floor of Sam's bedroom, Alan next to him, human and alive, Sam chattering excitedly about something or another, and the smell of baking drifting upstairs from the kitchen.

"...with it?" said Sam's voice.

Edgar blinked at him, dragged back suddenly and without warning to the present. Sam was stuffing the last chunk of his own cookie into his mouth, looking at Edgar oddly.

"What?" Edgar asked.

"The cookie," Sam said. "Is there something wrong with it? It's just you've been staring at it for the last two minutes."

Edgar shook his head, feeling reality settle around him once again. He shrugged. "It's okay," he said, and took another bite.

Sam nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Edgar couldn't help but notice Mrs. Emerson watching them, clearly only pretending to be busy at the kitchen sink, one ear turned slightly toward the open window. Edgar shifted uncomfortably. The feeling of being observed was never fun, and her suspicions were, in part at least, justified.

He finished the last bite of the cookie and sucked the crumbs from the tips of his fingers and thumb, before drying them on his jeans. "I should go," he said.

"What?" Sam suddenly looked very worried. "Why?"

"Things to do," Edgar shrugged, "stakes to sharpen, surfboards to shape. Got bills to pay."

Sam looked unconvinced.

"Besides," he added, "I think I might be outstaying my welcome." He glanced at the kitchen window. Lucy quickly stepped away, out of sight.

Sam followed his gaze, a fraction of a second to late to see their observer. He shook his head. "Mom loves you," he said. "You're always welcome here. She told you herself."

Edgar remembered. He and Alan had been sixteen, and an offhand comment by Sam had made Lucy realize what things were like in the Frog household. The offer had been sincere, and there were times when he and Alan had been glad of it. But he also remembered the steel in her voice the day before, when she warned him off pulling Sam back into the life of a hunter. It was inevitable, there was nothing he could do to prevent it, but a feeling of nervous guilt still gnawed at his stomach.

"It's your first full day home," he said. "I'm guessing your mom wants to spend some time with you. Your brother too, maybe. Where's he now, anyway?"

"He left," Sam said. "Him and Star, they went to see the world. But I don't think they got much further than LA yet."

"A lot of vampires in LA," Edgar told him. "Tell him to watch out, if he gets in the same mess he did here, I won't be there to help him out." He got to his feet, fingers reaching into the pocket of his light jacket for his keys. "And you be careful too, Sam. When... when _he_ comes back tonight. Don't tip him off that anything is wrong, but proceed with extreme caution, okay?"

Sam frowned, looking downward and suddenly very far away.

"Okay?" Edgar repeated. He leaned forward subconsciously toward his friend, waiting for an answer that would allow him to leave,

Sam allowed himself another moment of worry before looking up and forming his features into something resembling a smile. "Okay," he said. "Ish."

Edgar nodded. Under the circumstances, it was probably the best he could hope for, and frankly better than he thought he would be able to achieve if their positions were reversed.

* * *

Sam lay fully clothed on top of the covers of his still made bed. As he stared up at the ceiling, his fingers explored his newly cut hair. The style was shorter than he was used to, and fashionable, suggested by the stylist as Sam had had no idea of what to ask for. He had been shocked at first, when he saw his finished reflection. Months of watching himself deteriorate through the bathroom mirror of his hospital room bathroom had made him forget what it was like to feel good about himself. It had been surprisingly easy to undo the damage.

He had lost a little weight in the hospital too. It looked good on him, he decided, now that he had clothes that actually fit, rather than hanging off him the way Micheal's hand-me-downs had done when they were kids, growing too fast for their parents' wages to keep up. For the first time in a long time, he felt like Sam Emerson. Not Sam Emerson, vampire hunter, nor Sam Emerson, mental patient. He was himself again, and it felt wonderful.

Although, at this particular moment in time, he thought, it might feel better to be somebody else. Preferably someone who wasn't waiting for a visit from a former friend who had become something terrible.

The sun had set several hours earlier. His mom had gone to bed early, ready for the early shift at work the following morning, and rather than sit downstairs alone, Sam had retreated to the familiar comfort of his room.

Unlike the previous night, sleep was an unachievable goal. Then, he had been exhausted; physically and emotionally drained to the point where not even the terror of a potential visit from Alan had been able to keep him awake. Now he was wide awake, and completely unable to do anything other than lay, staring at the patterns of light and shadow on the ceiling, thinking.

As he lay there, minutes and hours blended until he wasn't sure whether the night had only just begun, or whether it was almost over. He dare not look at the clock, terrified that he would learn that there were hours still to go. A few stray pieces of cut hair that had dropped down the back of his t-shirt itched his skin, but moving may somehow draw Alan to him. Instead, Sam lay very still, breathing shallowly, wondering when the first rays of sunlight would penetrate his thin curtains.

The tap on the window, when it came, made him jump violently. The shock began in his chest and traveled down the length of his body like a wave, contracting muscles and preparing him to flee. His hands, which had moved from his newly cut hair to rest at his sides, gripped the cover of the bed hard, twisting it through his fingers. He inhaled sharply, willing his heartbeat to slow from its sudden tachycardia that he knew would increase the scent of his blood to the predator outside his window.

_Tap, tap tap._

Sam fought the pointless urge to run. "Talk to him," Edgar had said. "Win his trust." But when it came down to it, could he do it? Not even thinking about the ultimate goal of their scheme, could he bring himself to get off his bed, walk across the room and pull open the curtains?

_Tap, tap tap._

Sam thought of those long, vampiric fingernails – as much weapons designed to rip into human flesh as the sharp, terrifying teeth. They were tapping on his window, requesting entry.

Slowly, not quite able to believe what he was doing, Sam rolled onto his side and sat up. The man-shaped shadow beyond the curtain had returned.

"Sam?" Alan's voice called. "You awake in there?" He spoke in a whisper, yet somehow the sound carried easily through the glass and to the his ears. He sounded like Alan. Like the friend that Sam remembered from all those years ago. But he wasn't, and Sam needed to remember that.

From the place deep inside of him where his better judgment resided, came panic-screamed commands, telling him to run, to hide, but his more rational self knew that these things would be ultimately futile. The only possible result would be an angry vampire, as opposed to the quite reasonable one that Alan currently appeared to be.

_Tap, tap tap._

The balls of his sock-clad feet made contact with the thin carpet of his bedroom floor. His heart rate increased further as he padded slowly across the room to the window. When he reached out to touch the curtains, it was with fingers trembling from excess adrenaline.

He opened the curtains just a crack, still standing an arm's length away, and peered outside. On the other side of the glass, partially illuminated by the light inside the room, Alan stood suspended in the air. He hovered at more or less eye level with Sam, moving up and down slightly in the air. He locked eyes with Sam, and smiled. Sam froze, breath catching in his throat.

"Are you going to open the window?" Alan asked.

He had come this far, and as Edgar had pointed out the day before, if Alan wanted to get inside, he could do it, invitation or no. He might as well do ask he was asked. On the other hand, for some absurd reason, he felt safer with the pane of glass between them. Sam would be able to break it himself if he wanted, and he didn't have a fraction of a vampire's strength, but it made him feel more secure. He was inside, the monster was not.

Alan watched him, waiting for an answer. "Win his trust," Edgar's voice whispered again in his memory. Sam reached out again and lifted the catch that held the window closed. It swung open a fraction, and cold, nighttime air drifted into the room. Sam folded his arms against the chill and backed off several steps, not taking his eyes off the vampire.

Alan waited until Sam had stopped backing away before he pulled the window open fully, and drifted inside. Sam watched in fascination, noticing how he barely touched the wooden window frame as he manipulated his body in the air, maneuvering himself through the gap and coming to land gently on the carpet.

Sam tightened his folded arms as though they could form a barrier between himself and Alan.

"I won't ask for an invite," Alan said. "I know you wouldn't want to give it."

Sam couldn't bring himself to speak. His mouth opened wordlessly, and he settled instead for a quick, silent nod.

He looked at Alan carefully. He looked younger than Sam remembered. Of course, that was impossible. Time didn't touch the undead, they didn't age, but neither did they grow younger. The effect was in his mind. While Sam and everyone around him had aged, Alan had remained the boy he had been when he died. Sam perceived him as younger because he was getting older, something that Alan would never do. He would always be seventeen years old.

His skin appeared paler now than it had been in life. The effect was more striking in comparison to the dark hair that he had allowed to grow a little longer than when he was a child. Must be difficult getting a decent haircut when you're a vampire. Sam had yet to encounter a salon that wasn't filled with mirrors, any stylist with half a braincell would take one look at the lack of a reflection, scream, and run away. Sam felt one corner of his mouth twitch into the beginnings of a smile. He suppressed it quickly.

The only noticeable difference in Alan was his clothes. Gone was the olive green military gear, the faded t-shirts he and Edgar had shared, and even the ever-present beret. Instead, he was clad entirely in black; boots, jeans and shirt, all as dark as the night sky. A new kind of camouflage, to match his hunting ground.

Alan took a step forward. Sam took one back. He felt Alan's eyes on him, evaluating him in the same way.

"You look good," Alan told him.

Again, Sam struggled to say anything. He edged toward the bed, where the wooden stake was still concealed just under the covers.

"Where have you been, Sam?" Alan asked.

Sam shook his head wordlessly, still keeping his gaze fixed on the vampire as he sat down on the bed. He kept his hands visible, trying not to reach for the concealed weapon. But simply being near it made him feel safer.

Alan shrugged, "It doesn't matter, you're back now. I've missed you."

"Sure you have," Sam blurted. His voice sounded strangled and weak, but definitely audible. He immediately gripped his bottom lit with his teeth, horrified at himself.

"First Edgar leaves town, then you just disappear?" Alan appeared not to be angry at Sam's words, only hurt. "Of course I did. I've been totally alone all this time."

Sam looked carefully at the vampire. He did look genuinely regretful. Sam knew what being alone was like. His Grandpa had been killed, Edgar left town, Michael took Star and fled from the bad memories Santa Carla was filled with. Then there was just him and his mother, and he couldn't burden her with the terrible things he had experienced. Things like Alan, at his window every night, offering him immortality, trying to make him a monster.

Being the monster at the window, though, that was something Sam didn't understand, but being abandoned by your family and friends he did.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. However afraid he might be of Alan, he couldn't help but believe that he was in part still the kid from the comic store, who dressed like GI Joe, followed his brother's orders unquestioningly and had risked his life to save Sam and his family.

Alan took a step forward, "Is it okay if I sit down?"

Sam nodded, his hand edged imperceptibly closer to the stake.

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me where you were," Alan told him. He sat down on the chair next to Sam's desk, a respectful distance away. "But if you're going to leave again, will you let me know first? I didn't know whether to wait for you, I couldn't ask your mom because I didn't know what she knew. Edgar told people I was dead, didn't he?"

Sam nodded.

Alan looked down, "I suppose that's easier for him. That's why I didn't try to contact him. I watched him a few times though. Until he disappeared."

They sat in silence for a few moments, Sam still wary.

"Why did you leave?" Alan asked.

"How did you know I was back?" Sam countered. Again, he instantly regretted his words, and again, Alan seemed unconcerned.

The vampire smiled, and it was a human smile, full of amusement. "If you didn't want me to know," he said, "you probably shouldn't have left your bedroom light on all night."

Sam looked away for a fraction of a second before remembering and returning his gaze to the vampire. Alan was waiting now for a reply to his question, but Sam was afraid to give the true answer, and all possible lies eluded him.

"Was it because I offered to turn you?" Alan tried.

That made Sam angry. He tried to suppress the emotion, but he heard it in his own words. "You didn't _offer_. You told me you were going to. Then when I refused, you tried to convince me."

Alan nodded, "And you got scared because you wanted to say yes."

"No!" Sam got to his feet, the stake temporarily forgotten in the bed covers as he lost himself in unpleasant memories. "I didn't want to say yes. Think back to when you were human, Alan, would you ever have said yes? Would you ever have willingly drank that blood?"

Alan's expression darkened, he shook his head, "No. But that was before I knew what it was like. If you could experience it, Sam, you'd wonder why you ever refused. It's wonderful."

Sam crossed the room to the window. It had swung back to closed, he pushed it open again. "Maybe Edgar was right," he said. "Maybe you're not Alan any more. Alan had this forced on him, and he hated it. He'd never do the same thing to someone else. Never."

Alan watched him, a sad expression on his face. He heard the unspoken request for him to leave, and to Sam's relief, heeded it with no attempt to argue. As he got to his feet and walked towards the window, Sam backed away again, back to the bed, and the stake.

"I won't force you into anything, Sam, I promise," Alan said. "I just want my friend back."

With that, he climbed outside and flew away into the night sky. Sam stood completely still, trembling as he watched his dark shape blend into the black of the night sky. After several minutes, the cold air from the open window made him shiver back into action. He closed the window, fastened it, and pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the night. Finally, he climbed beneath the covers of his bed, gripped the stake tightly in his right hand, and once again lay there until the sun began to rise.


	5. Chapter 5

The following day dawned cloudy and gray with the promise of rain on the horizon. Sam had slept once his room lightened, tossing and turning his way through a morning filled with nightmares, waking often, and panicking for a moment that the terrible dreams had been true, before he remembered that the sun had risen, and that he was safe for a while.

When he finally woke, the sun was high in the sky and burning through the layers of cloud to reveal patches of blue beyond. Sleep tried to pull him back down, but Sam resisted enough to climb out of bed. He was still fully clothed in his jeans and t-shirt from the previous night. He stood for a moment by his door, listening for his mother moving around the house, but he could hear nothing. She must have gone to work already.

Rubbing tired eyes, he walked wearily to the bathroom, switched on the shower, stripped, leaving his clothes on the floor, and stepped under the running water. Warm water pounded onto his head and shoulders, running down his back relaxing each and every one of the muscles that had tensed the night before and remained that way throughout the daylight hours when he had slept. The headache that he had woken to faded a little under the assault of water and steam.

He reached for the shampoo and massaged it through his new, short style, enjoying the feeling of his own fingertips massaging his aching head. He would have stayed under the water all day if he could. Unfortunately, he had things to do, people – or person – to see. He quickly washed himself, rinsed off the soap, and glanced wistfully at his mother's facial products stored at the side of the sink. He hadn't exfoliated in months.

A mental shrug, and he reached for one of the tubes, squeezed a little of the contents onto his fingertips, and got to work. It wouldn't be too long a job, and he probably had time.

Sam emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, wrapped in a large towel and followed by a cloud of fragrant steam. His quickly rubbed hair stuck out in all directions, and his newly scrubbed face practically glowed. He dressed quickly in some of his new clothes, blow-dried his hair and carefully gelled and waxed it into position as per the stylist's careful instructions. Finally, he took a step backward to look into his mirror at the finished product.

He looked okay. Good, even. The dark circles under his eyes were the result of a bad night's sleep and save for raiding his mother's make-up bag, there wasn't a lot he could do about that. He briefly considered it, and decided against the idea. The one time he had tried it before, after an outbreak of adolescent acne, had earned him so many nicknames around his school in Phoenix that he had almost been glad when his mother announced that they leaving his father and moving to Santa Carla. The rest of his face looked less exhausted though, thanks to the citrus boost face pack.

Downstairs in the kitchen, his mother had left him a note advising of bacon and eggs in the fridge. He reached for the door, then reconsidered, thinking about his new, trimmer figure, and instead grabbed an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl, and poured a glass of orange juice.

When he had eaten, brushed his teeth and checked himself in the mirror one more time, Sam grabbed a jacket and left the house, locking the front door behind him. He walked to the garage, where his bike was still stored, and wheeled it outside. Several years of disuse had left it looking a little old, but it seemed to still be in working order. It was a little small for him now, but it would do until he got himself a more respectable mode of transportation.

He set off, peddling down the drive. The chain creaked and he wondered whether he should have oiled it, but once he was underway it seemed okay as he cycled the familiar road into town.

* * *

Edgar parked his truck in a side street two blocks from the boardwalk. It was deserted there, despite being so close to the main hub of the town's activity. Just a residential street that he had walked or cycled down more times than he could remember, with Alan and sometimes Sam at his side, on their way to or from school.

He exited the truck, locked the door and pocketed his keys. It was strange to be back. When he had left Santa Carla, he had assumed that it would be for good. There was nothing left for him there anymore, and he had moved on, placing the town firmly into his past. Being back felt like traveling through time.

The house on the corner still had the same overgrown garden with the million bird feeders hanging from every bush. On the other side of the street, another one displayed a For Sale sign that had been there for as long as Edgar could remember. It was frightening how much it felt like he had gone back. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Alan standing next to him wearing his ever-present beret, staring around them through hooded eyes as he assessed the street for signs of vampire activity.

Edgar took a deep breath, trying to clear the thought, but even the taste of the air was familiar. He checked his watch, found he still had plenty of time, and set off on foot toward the boardwalk. As he went, he couldn't help but look around fascinated by both the things that were the same, and the things that were different.

He rounded a final corner and found himself on the Santa Carla boardwalk, looking out into the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean. There were people around, but it wasn't busy. Mornings never were, especially early in the season as this was. More people would arrive on the beach if and when the day heated up. Cafes would start to fill up with holidaymakers looking for drinks and ice creams, people would start to browse the shops, spending their money on junky souvenirs for friends and family. As the day wore on, the action would move to the bars, and from there it would spread outward during the night as people stupid on booze and drugs would begin to take stupid risks. Finally, slowly, the place would clear, until the sun rose and the process started over.

This had been his town once, and he still knew it well.

At the low wall that separated the boardwalk from the beach, he stopped, and watched the world around him. Down on the sand, a couple of teens were optimistically rubbing their skin with sunscreen and spreading towels to lay on. Above them, the shape of the sun was just about visible through the layer of cloud, and although Edgar could just about feel its warmth, it would be some time before it made any kind of real appearance.

He turned to look at the boardwalk. The shops and cafes and bars were all familiar, even the people inside were the same, a little older, perhaps, but other than that nothing had changed. It felt incredibly surreal to be there again. Everywhere he looked held a memory. Here, he had stood with Sam as he embellished a hunting tale in a ridiculous attempt to impress his friend. There, the three of them had sat eating ice cream and making plans for the future; a future that had gone terribly wrong not long after.

As he walked, keeping parallel to the beach and splitting his gaze between the beach and the buildings, heading in the direction of what had been his home, the familiarities became more intense. This was where he had lived and worked for most of his life. He had grown up right there.

He passed the carrousel, currently still and lifeless, and the old man selling cotton candy from a mobile stall. As he passed, the man caught his eye and smiled. Edgar looked quickly away, unable to tell if it had been a friendly hello or a recognition. As he turned, he froze.

The building looked exactly the same. The shutters were open, and he could see the shop inside. He knew every brick on the inside, every crack in the plaster within. Inside those walls, he had lived his entire life; grown from an infant to a man, watched his parents slowly descend into a drug-induced fog, learned how to run a business, take care of himself and his brother and fight the monsters and all the while attending school on time and not looking to exhausted, careful not to come to the attention of any well meaning teachers who might try to involve Child Protective Services in their lives.

It was ironic that so far this was the only thing that was different. He had known it would be. Alan was gone, he had left, and his parents had sold up and moved away. He had known the store was gone, but seeing it for himself still came as a shock.

He walked up to the window and peered inside. Sam had told him it was empty, but it had become a souvenir shop of the kind you found all over every resort town. The shelves were stocked with postcards, ornaments made from seashells never seen on the Santa Carla beach, and cheap jewelry. Hanging from a rail outside, were beach towels with colorful and sometimes rude images dyed onto them. A few inflatable air mattresses stood leaning against the wall.

Edgar hesitated by the door, considering going inside for a final look around. He decided against it. As people apparently said, you can never go home again. In this case, it was quite literally true. Standing outside the building where he had spent his entire life, Edgar Frog felt an intense pang of homesickness. He turned away, and walked to the nearest cafe out of sight of the shop. He ordered a coffee. For good measure, he faced in the opposite direction, looking out to sea, and he waited for Sam.

* * *

Sam dismounted the bike as he turned onto the boardwalk with its faded and usually ignored No Cycling signs at every entrance. He pushed it for a few steps, before placing one foot on a pedal and using the bike as a scooter.

They had arranged to meet outside the site of the comic shop, however when Sam arrived he found, to his surprise, that the building that had been boarded up and covered with sad, wilting posters when he had seen it last, had come back to life as a giftshop. Edgar was nowhere to be seen. He surveyed the people around him. There were relatively few so far and quickly located the back of the hunter's head, staring out to sea.

Sam smiled, ran a hand through his hair to reposition any strands that cycling may have displaced, and sauntered over.

"Boo." Sam stepped around Edgar from behind, turning as he did, placing himself right in his friends line of sight. Edgar, so his credit, didn't even flinch. Sam knew from the slight expression of irritation on his face that he had surprised him, but years of hunting had taught him to suppress his instinctive reactions.

He propped the bike up against the side of the table and sat down in the opposite chair.

Edgar looked him up and down, taking in the new look, but made no comment. Instead he took a swig from his coffee mug, placed it back on the table in front of him. "You're late," he said.

"I am?" Sam frowned. He brushed up the sleeve of his jacket to display his bare wrist. "No watch," he explained, "Sorry, bud." An explanation of how he had needed to restart his facial routine was unlikely to go down well.

Edgar waved away the problem and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "What happened last night? Did he come back?"

Sam sat back slightly, away from the eager stare. "Well," he said, hesitating as he thought back to the previous night.

Edgar continued to stare, waiting.

"The thing is," Sam said, "Yeah, he did. And I'm a bit worried I might have pissed him off."

Edgar's eyes narrowed, and Sam launched into an explanation of the events of the night before, of making the stupid, dangerous mistake of losing his temper. They were interrupted twice by a waitress who first took Sam's order, and then brought him his drink, forcing them into silence for fear of being overheard.

When he was done, Edgar sat back, away from the table. Sam chewed on a nail, waiting for a response. "I don't think," Edgar said, "that this is a bad thing. I mean, he didn't attack you, so you've tested your limits and know you can get away with that. He might even be pleased, you're arguing with him like a friend, makes you look like you're not afraid."

"Well, I am," Sam told him.

"Yeah, and he'll know it. But if you can talk to a vampire like that, Sam, maybe you're not as afraid as you think." He paused considering. "Or, you're more stupid," he added.

Sam grinned. Unlike his mother, Edgar wasn't walking on eggshells around him, afraid that he would shatter and run away again. It felt oddly good to get back some sense of normality. Hanging out on the Santa Carla boardwalk exchanging insults with Edgar was about as normal as it could get. It was how he had spent the better part of three years of his life.

"How did he seem?" Edgar asked suddenly. "Did he act like Alan? Did he still look like him?"

Sam thought about it while he sipped his Diet Coke, enjoying the sound of the ice cubes knocking against the side of the glass, "I don't know, Edgar, he seemed fine, he looked the same." He looked at Edgar, leaning forward again, eager for answers to his questions. "You know," he added, "for someone who wants him dead, you sure seem interested in his well being."

"Hey!" In an instant, in a clatter of metal chair legs on concrete, Edgar was on his feet and glaring down at Sam, "I don't want him dead. The fact is, he is dead. I wish he wasn't, if there was anything I could do to bring him back, I would."

"Um..." Sam glanced nervously in the direction of the one other occupied table. A middle aged couple dressed in walking clothes had paused mid sip of coffee and were staring at Sam and Edgar in undisguised, horrified fascination.

Edgar stopped speaking immediately and sank back into his chair. He sat completely still and stared back at the other table until they suddenly found their own conversation absolutely fascinating. Once their attention moved back to their own, much safer lives, Edgar continued, keeping his voice low this time.

"Whatever that thing is, it's not Alan. I'm interested in how good an impression of him it can do. That's all."

Sam tapped his fingernails on the edge of the table and sneaked a glance at the couple. They were getting to their feet ready to leave. The woman had opened her purse and was counting out money to pay. "You need to make your mind up, Edgar," he said. "You say he is still Alan, that's why you can't kill him, now you say he isn't. It seems like you don't know what you think. And if he's not Alan, why do I have to do your dirty work for you?"

Edgar shook his head, as though doing so would erase the question. "Just stick to the plan. He's not trying to crawl through my window at night. Now, how did he seem?"

"Like Alan."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Edgar sighed, and for a moment he looked lost. He recovered quickly, straightened his bandanna and looked Sam in the eye. "Stay on the lookout for an opportunity to stake him, but be careful; if you try it and fail, you won't get another chance. Remember, he's stronger and faster than you. If you attack him and he sees it coming, he _will_ stop you."

Sam nodded, feeling the nightly fear return several hours too early. He began mentally working out the number of hours until sunset.

"Our best choice," Edgar continued, "is to find out where he sleeps so you can get to him in the daytime."

"He'd have to trust me completely to let me know where he sleeps," Sam pointed out. That kind of trust was not easily earned.

"I know. It's going to take a while, but it's going to be worth it."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, still marveling at the feel of his newly cut style. It was amazing how easy it had been to make him feel human again., but if Alan got his way, humanity would become nothing but a memory. He would never feel – or be – human again. Ever. "He still wants to turn me," he said quietly.

Edgar said nothing for a long moment. He rolled the base of his empty coffee mug on the polished aluminum table top, and stared out over the boardwalk into the great, blue-gray expanse of the Pacific.

Finally, just as Sam was beginning to think he had no response to give, Edgar turned back to him. He took a deep breath. "Would that make him trust you?" he asked.

Sam froze.


	6. Chapter 6

As Edgar watched, Sam froze completely still, then in an instant, bolted.

The table shook violently as his legs hit the edge and the clang of metal and breaking glass echoed over the boardwalk. Sam grabbed his bike and ran, mounting it as he moved.

"Sam!" Edgar called after him, but he was already most likely out of earshot, and not listening even if the shout did carry. "Shit," he muttered to himself. The tabletop was swimming in a foul looking mixture of Diet Coke and coffee dregs. Sam's glass had shattered when it fell, scattering broken glass around the whole area. From the doorway, the waitress was watching in horror

Edgar fished in his pocket and retrieved his wallet. He took out enough to cover the cost of the drinks, plus a generous tip for the trouble they had caused. He left it on the table, in an island of dry among the sea of spillage, and looked at her. "Sorry," he said, shrugging apologetically, and then took off at a sprint after Sam.

He was gone. By the time he left the cafe, there was no sign of Sam on the boardwalk. Edgar turned down the nearest street back into town, still running fast, and headed toward his car. His legs carried him instinctively down the familiar streets, avoiding bumps and cracks in the uneven pavement without even looking.

As he rounded the final corner, exhaustion was beginning to set in. Muscles began to protest at the intensity of the sudden, unexpected burst of energy. He opened the door to his truck, climbed inside and once he was off the street and out of sight of anyone who might be watching, gasped for air. He was in good enough shape, hunting vampires he had to be, but that had been a little much.

When he was recovered, he turned the key in the ignition. Technically, Sam could have gone anywhere in Santa Carla, but realistically, Edgar knew he had gone to one of two places; home, or back to the institution. Edgar flipped a mental coin and chose home. More likely, even if it was only to grab some things and leave.

He put the truck into drive and pushed down hard on the gas, driving as fast as he could get away with without drawing unwanted attention.

As he approached the Emerson house, he saw to his relief that Sam's bike had been discarded on the ground just outside. He pulled to a stop outside, jumped out of the truck and tried the door. It was locked.

He raised a fist and pounded on the wood. "Sam?"

There was no answer. No sound or signs of movement from inside.

"Come on, Sam, I know you're in there. Open up!"

Still nothing.

Edgar backed away from the door, stepped down from the porch and looked up, to where Sam's bedroom window overlooked the drive. Sam's face appeared briefly, peering out to see what was happening, and then disappeared as soon as he realized he had been spotted.

Staring up at the closed window, Edgar tried again. "Sam, come on. Just let me in so we can talk."

Nothing.

"I'm not going away 'til you let me in."

The face didn't re-appear.

Fine, thought Edgar. If Sam wouldn't open the door, he would find another way in. He cast a critical, well trained eye over the exterior of the house. Hunting vampires meant he often had to gain entry to places and properties where he wasn't exactly welcome. A locked door wasn't necessarily a barrier.

* * *

Sam concentrated very hard on not hearing Edgar outside. He focused his attention instead on the task at hand. He quickly threw a few t-shirts and underpants into a bag, added a couple of pairs of socks, the first book he could grab from his shelves, a bottle of holy water, some garlic and a stake.

His heart was still pounding from the exertion of the frantic, terrified bike ride home, arms and legs trembling with exertion and adrenaline.

"Sam, open up! I just want to talk."

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine. Alan had said the same words that first night when he had visited. 'I just want to talk.' But of course, he wanted much more than that. Edgar sounded closer now, almost as though he were right outside the window.

The feeling of being watched washed over Sam, and the shiver spread outward, traveling down his nerves to touch every part of his body. Slowly, dreading what he was about to see, he turned around to look over his shoulder.

Edgar was outside.

He was standing on the window ledge, holding on to something out of sight above the window. He balanced precariously, feet moving slightly from side to side, trying to get a better foothold on the thin ledge. Only his legs were visible, the rest of his body was out of sight above the top of the window.

Sam felt himself relax, just slightly. For one horrible, ridiculous moment, he had expected to see Edgar flying.

"Let me in, Sam!" Edgar shouted.

Echoes of a half vampire Michael, hovering outside his window all those years ago. What was it about his bedroom window that made people want to climb through it? He might be flattered if the circumstances had been different.

"Sam!"

"No way!" He said, shaking his head from side to side despite the face that from his position, Edgar couldn't see into the room." You're insane! You want me to turn into a vampire!"

He zipped up the bag and paused. Edgar might be hanging from his window now, but if he could get up there, he could get down again and ambush him as he tried to leave. His mom wouldn't be back for hours, and by then he wouldn't have time to escape before the sun went down.

"Sam, come on! I'm going to fall," Edgar shouted. His foothold on the ledge was looking more precarious. If he opened the window to let Edgar inside, maybe he would be able to escape out of the door before he could climb through and catch him.

He walked apprehensively over to the window, and lifted the latch, allowing it to open. Edgar immediately swung himself inside and landed crouching on the floor, panting slightly with the exertion of hanging on outside. Before Sam could bolt, he stood. "_I'm_ insane?" he said, crossing the room and blocking the door with his body as though he had anticipated Sam's escape plan. His eyes drifted to the bag slung over Sam's shoulder. "You're the one about to check back in to the funny farm."

Sam's eyes narrowed, "Get out of my way, Edgar."

"Look, I don't want you to become a vampire, I never said that. Will you just put the bag down and listen to me for a minute?"

"No." Sam shook his head from side to side quickly, "I'm done listening to you. I never should have listened to you in the first place."

"Sam..." Edgar took a cautious step back into the room, and then in a lightning fast move, reached out and snatched the bag from Sam's shoulder. He threw it over his own.

Sam tried unsuccessfully to take it back, but Edgar was prepared and simply stepped out of the way, blocking him. Defeated, Sam backed off and slumped into the chair by his desk. Even if he could re-claim the bag, Edgar wasn't going to let him leave.

"If you hadn't listened to me, you'd still be in that place, and if you go back now, you're never going to leave again. That's why you need to see this thing through, okay?"

Sam shook his head. He crossed his arms defensively and glared at Edgar. "No, not okay. I ran away in the first place because I didn't want to be turned. So your solution is it let him turn me? Then what? He won't expect another bloodsucker to stake him? So I kill him and then what, stand still so you can do the same to me? Is that the master plan? You're the one that should be checking into the institution, Edgar."

"Jesus, calm down." Edgar dropped the bag onto the floor and sat on it. "I don't want you to be a vampire, Sam, and I certainly don't want to kill you. I was just thinking out loud, that's all. We need Alan to trust you. If he wants to turn you, maybe you just need to demonstrate that you're open to the possibility."

Sam turned and placed his elbows on his desk. He closed his eyes, rested his head in his hands and began to massage his brow. It make any difference to the headache that was beginning to simmer just below the surface. When he looked up, Edgar was staring at him intently, waiting for an answer. He was still sitting on the bag, squashing it under his weight.

"Will you get off that?" Sam said, "You're going to crush garlic into my clothes."

Edgar glanced down at the bag and wordlessly complied with the request. He left it on the floor by his feet, where his quick reflexes would allow him to snatch it if Sam made a move.

"How?" Sam asked.

"How what?"

"How do I make Alan think I might want to be..." He hesitated, "you know, like him? He's not stupid, Edgar. Last night I was saying no way, if tonight I suddenly change my mind, he's going to figure something's up."

Edgar's lips twitched into the smallest echo of a smile, and Sam's tightened. Edgar had him, and he knew it.

"I don't know. Just imply you're not completely against the idea. But do it slowly, it might take a while. For now, just talk to him. Ask questions. Seem like you're interested."

The idea seemed so ridiculous that it almost made sense. "Like a job interview?" Sam sat up straight and spoke, announcement style. 'Wanted, vampire sidekick. Experience preferred, ex-slayers considered."

"Well," Edgar scratched his nose thoughtfully, "not exactly. You already know you've got the job if you wanted it. Try to make him think you're considering it. Pretend like you're interviewing him."

Sam eyed the bag at Edgar's feet. He knew it would be pointless, but part of him still wanted to grab it and run away again. The same part of him that had been secretly pleased behind the terror when he thought Edgar would suggest something so crazy as turning into a half vampire. Because if Edgar really wanted him to do that, it made running again seem like an acceptable decision.

"I don't know about this," he said. "I don't really want him thinking I want to be a vampire, he might just go ahead and bite me or something."

"You know that's not how it works," Edgar told him.

"Not the point," Sam countered.

"Look, unpack this." Edgar picked up the bag of clothes and dropped it onto the end of Sam's bed. "Then just carry on as you have been for now. But when you're talking, just drop in a question. Ask him... I don't know. Ask him what flying's like, or something like that. Something not too gruesome. Stay away from blood, killing people, all that stuff. At least for now."

Sam closed his eyes, and as he did, felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He forced them open again quickly before he succumbed to the need for sleep, and looked at Edgar. "Fine," he said. "I'll try it. But if he turns me..." he allowed the words to tail off, he had no ending for that particular thought. Any that he might come up with didn't bear thinking about.

"He won't," Edgar said, and he sounded so sure that Sam could almost bring himself to believe him.

* * *

Edgar climbed, relieved, into the familiar cocoon of his truck and pulled the door closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. The sooner this was over with, the better. The sooner he could get back to his life, and out of this crazy town filled with reflections of the past, the sooner he could move on. Sam too, if he decided to.

Seeing what had happened to his friend hurt, but it was so frustrating trying to get through to him without knowing how far it was safe to push before he would turn and run. Once, Sam would have pushed back, and every now and then, Edgar caught a glimpse of that version of him trying to come out from beneath the terrified surface.

Truth be told, he was beginning to doubt whether Sam had the guts to pull this off. Not that he could exactly hold it against him if he didn't. After all, the reason he had come to Sam in the first place was that he knew he couldn't do it himself.

He tugged on the side of his bandanna, repositioning it slightly on his head, then pushed the key into the ignition. He couldn't believe he had been stupid enough to say that to Sam. Knowing the fragile state he was in, knowing what it was that scared him more then anything – and how could he fail to know that? It was the same thing that kept him up at night too. The damage had been just about repaired, Sam still appeared to trust him, but that was because Sam didn't know the truth.

He honestly hadn't been thinking it before his mouth opened and spewed out random, stupid thoughts into the conversation, but once it did, a seed had been planted. A weed, rather than anything of any real use, and it had grown quickly. Despite his efforts to kill it, it was still growing. Part of him, and not a small part either, wondered whether if Sam was turned, it might not be an entirely bad thing. After all, what better incentive could there be to kill a vampire than to save yourself from becoming one of them?

Edgar growled, low in his throat, as though he could scare away the poisonous thought, then he turned the key and listened to the engine roar into life. The tape in his stereo began to play, and he turned up the volume until he could think of nothing but the sound, and then he shifted into drive and headed for home.

* * *

Sam watched out of his bedroom window as Edgar got into his truck and drove away. He waited until the vampire hunter was a reasonable distance from the house, and then turned his attention to the bag that Edgar had left on the bottom of his bed with the instruction to unpack.

He sat down on the bed next to it and slowly unfastened the zipper. To his relief, though the papery skin of the garlic had flaked slightly under Edgar's weight, it had remained whole and uncrushed, sparing his clothes from becoming infused with the smell. He reached inside, retrieved the two bulbs and sniffed. The smell was still quite pungent. If he left it in there with his clothes for too long, crushed or not, he would be smelling like the kitchen of an Italian restaurant for days. Though, in certain circumstances, that might not be an entirely bad idea.

He did a quick inventory of the bag's contents. It contained everything he would need if he had to leave at short notice. Not everything he might want, but enough to keep him going for a short while. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved his wallet, took out a $20, wrapped it around his emergency credit card and ID, and inserted it into the small zip compartment at the side of the bag. From his bedroom floor, he picked up a discarded but clean t-shirt, wrapped it around the garlic to absorb the worst of the smell, and placed it once again on the top of the bag.

That done, he closed the bag again, placed it on the floor and kicked it underneath the bed and out of sight with his heel. He might not need it yet, but knowing it was there if he did made him feel about ten times better.

It also made him feel a little rebellious, deliberately not following Edgar's orders. Edgar, who had said the worst possible thing to him.

The sun had come out from behind the clouds now, and the position of the shadows told him that t was mid-afternoon. The hours of daylight were growing scarce.

Sam lay down on his bed, on top of the covers and closed his eyes. Two sleepless nights were finally catching up with him, and the idea of sleeping after dark was incredibly unappealing. Sleep came quickly, as though it had been laying in wait for an opportunity to pounce. He fell hard and fast into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
